


traced your shadow with my shoe

by ahana



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Existential Crisis, M/M, Post-Heart Attack, like really old, talk of death, they're old ppl dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 01:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahana/pseuds/ahana
Summary: At sixty-seven, Even figured he’d had a good life and now all he had to do was wait for the sweet release of death that would either take him to the pits of hell or reincarnate him as a grasshopper.Whatever.He’d lived all the lives he’d ever been envious of, he’d gone on adventures he’d never dreamed of and he’d written every story there was to tell.So, why did he find himself praying to the universe, begging for one more day to hold the hands of a man who couldn't stop talking about the wonders of air touch technology as he coughed his way into the night?





	traced your shadow with my shoe

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be funny but because i’m a dramatic hoe, it turned into… this.
> 
> thank you to the lovely people (wyo, mack, paula) in the discord chat for helping me with some of the lines here, especially georgie for being super awesome and emo. i really wanted to incorporate all of your ideas but the fic escaped me. sorry! also thanks to @valtersass for beta-reading this mess!
> 
> title is from “all of me wants all of you” by sufjan stevens

“How many people have you fallen in love with?”

Isak’s voice broke the silence that had been carefully settling around them. Crickets chirped loudly as the last few rays of the late summer sun fought with the darkening sky, and a cool breeze blew through the open porch.

“Hm?” Even turned to look at Isak carefully, wondering where this was coming from. Hadn’t they agreed that they wouldn’t speak of the past? That all it brought up was regret they couldn’t bury?

Isak was looking at him with an unreadable expression, something like wistfulness stained with jealousy. It wasn’t a look Even wanted to see on him. His hands fiddled with the lower end of his shirt, unbuttoning and buttoning and unbuttoning and buttoning. It was a slow process and his fingers shook. Even wasn’t sure it was the cold that was doing that.

“You heard me,” Isak said.

He had. So, Even took some time to think. He had come to realize that he could never take anything Isak said lightly; there was a weight hanging on every word. He moved his hips around to face Isak — an involuntary wince made its way to his face — as images streaked behind his eyelids almost like an old iPhone video on fast forward: Roman summers with a bright blue haired girl, snowboarding in the Alps clasping a dark hand in his own, fluttering kisses at the break of dawn, long brown locks spread over his childhood bed, movie premieres with a pair of black suits, twenty years with a woman he thought he knew.

And then there was this.

A tranquility he’d never known before next to a man with muted green eyes and a brain that could never slow down enough for its body. Soft midnight conversations, unfunny jokes in the morning, food fights at lunch, naps in laps and rocking chairs on a late summer evening.

What counted as falling in love? Was it the adrenaline rush that someone brings to your body as they hold your hand? Was it the warmth that wraps around you when someone caresses your cheeks, knowing you’re safe with them? Was it the way someone holds your hand as they help you up the stairs, patiently encouraging your every step? Or was it just the idea of recognizing something special in someone, something you’ve never seen before?

“Oh… I don’t know, Isak,” he concluded.

“Give me a ballpark,” Isak said. Even squinted as he took in Isak’s body shivering against the slight chill in the air. His eyes were determined, like he was looking for a specific answer from Even. He clearly had a hypothesis and he’d been building it for a while now, but why did he chose to confront Even about it then?

Isak leaned towards Even making his chair creak louder than usual. His elbows rested on a dusty old Physics textbook that he had pulled out to help Even’s oldest granddaughter with her homework while Even listened to his own daughter regale tales from weddings he’s missed. Even wanted to concentrate on her, he really did, but there was no way anyone could compete with the way Isak slowly explained the second law of thermodynamics to a wide-eyed twelve year old Marie.

Did that make him a bad father? Possibly. He’d never really been a good one though, so maybe he could just pin this one on old age.

“Five, maybe?” Even answers, confusedly. “Or, seven?”

Isak just nodded and turned away from him.

They didn’t say anything for a while after that. Silence began to settle around them once again, but Even could tell that wasn’t the end of the conversation for Isak. He knew him. He knew that in that moment, there were about a hundred cogs turning in several different directions in Isak’s brain, working towards some theory that he’d been holding onto for reasons still unknown. Even knew the way his fingers ticked against the arms of his chair, and the way his eyes focused on something in the distance. He knew there was more to this than just a question.

So, he pushed, like he always did.

“Isak?”  

“Yeah, Even?”

“Just because I’ve loved people before doesn’t mean I can’t love you just as much,” he said. The confession doesn’t seem like one he should have made above a murmur, but Isak’s hearing had started to become a bit unreliable and life wasn’t really a movie, so he said it loudly, with the crickets as witnesses. “If not more.”

Isak didn’t give him anything. No reaction, no words, no movements. The only thing that let Even know he was still alive was the sound of his heavy breathing, a comfort for Even in the middle of the night, but right then, just a ticking clock rushing towards a conclusion he can’t fathom.

“One, Even,” Isak finally said. “That’s my number.”

|| 

Even met Isak a year ago during a FIFA night at the Rec Hall.

He’d never really been much for FIFA but it was his first day at the retirement home and he was already beginning to feel like a kid whose parents dropped him off at kindergarten for the first time. So, like some first-year student at college, he wandered out of his room and down the winding hallways to search for the intellectual people in the facility with whom he could converse with.

Instead, he walked in on Isak and another woman yelling obscenities at tiny graphic football players while the teenage volunteers watched in shock from the doorway. Even couldn’t stop smiling as he watched the man roughly click the buttons of his controller, body leaning away from the back rest of the couch as his concentrated on the TV screen. Someone was playing the piano poorly in the back of the room, but Isak’s “fuck — take that, you fucking fucks” was louder.

Even doesn’t remember how long he stood behind the teenage volunteers, not paying attention to them as they touched away on their AirPhones; his eyes focused only on Isak. The man’s hair was a mess, like he’d woken up from a nap and hadn’t even bothered brushing his hair or teeth, deciding that a FIFA game was more important than appearances. He probably had a point, Even decided. This was a retirement home, after all.

Even traced the rest of his actions — the bend of his back, his little neck movements, and the fidgety left leg. He was beautiful, from his graying curls to his cherry stained lips strung by Cupid’s own hands.

“Pause the game,” the woman had said, “I gotta pee.”

“Really, Linn?” Even remembered him asking in the most exasperated tone a sixty-five year old could muster.

“Isak, if I notice you’ve unpaused it again, I swear to God, I will tell Eskild what you said about his son last week.”

Isak’s eyes had widened and he had raised his arms in surrender, a playful smile dancing on his lips. Time froze and Even wished he had the energy to paint that smile across a thousand billboards making the whole world see pink lips, white teeth and happiness in its truest form. It was electricity and butterflies and thunderstorms.

_Immortal._

When Isak’s eyes scanned the room in Linn’s absence, they found Even’s by the door, his body deliberately leaning against the frame and a pencil hanging off of his ear. Even felt his heart jump three feet out of his body, almost lost his balance as he fell metaphorically, hanging on by a single artery. Subdued green met bland blue and all ceased to exist.

Even thought to himself: _t_ _here’s a feeling I’ve never felt before._

“So, what _did_ you say about Eskild’s son last week?”

|| 

Even quickly found out that Isak had the strangest thought process a human being could possess. He analyzed everything carefully, and never spoke without running every word he wanted to say through his brain twice. He held answers for every question Even had ever had —

 

 

 

> “Marie just told me I smell like old people!”
> 
> “To be fair, you are old.”
> 
> “Whose side are you on?”
> 
> “Yours, baby, of course,” Isak said, without looking up from his newspaper, “but technically, you do smell like old people. As your body grows older and your skin becomes weaker, it begins to produce more fatty acids which in turn aids the production of nonenal which you can’t wash away from your skin, leaving you to smell greasy and musty and, well… old people-y.”
> 
> A beat. A smile. A kiss.
> 
> “Is this your way of telling me I stink, Professor Valtersen?”

— and questioned everything he had yet to learn. Once he confessed to Even that it was the only thing that made him feel like he need not die; like if he worked hard enough to search for the universe’s secrets, the universe wouldn’t take him away until he fulfilled his quest.

“It’s childish, I know,” he said, face down as he burned holes into his socks.

But, it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

Because who wasn’t scared of death? Who wasn’t scared of an unseen, unfelt force that could wipe your name from the sands of time? All humans had were echoes, carried down by voices as they told tales of other humans. Death erased that. Death turned existence towards oblivion.

Even used to believe he wouldn’t mind death, and on his worst days he even found himself wishing for it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified of the idea of ceasing to exist. All of him — his walking legs, his talking mouth, his breathing lungs — removed from existence, buried somewhere to decay under the soil regardless of rain or snow, while his daughters occasionally showed up with a bouquet of roses to place at his grave stone.

Here lies Even Bech Næsheim, someone that nobody cares about because he’s fucking dead.

All that would be left of him were his films, resting in vintage DVDs and old Netflix accounts, to be watched by people when they couldn't sleep at four in the morning. It wasn't much, but it was still a way he would exist, a way he would persist, and a way he would win a fight with death.

“It’s not childish, Is,” Even finally said, because, really, what else was left to say? “I get it.”

Sometimes they would eat breakfast together in Even’s bed — a plate of pancakes (two forks obviously), a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice (courtesy of Even’s psychiatrist) — and just watch the sun rise in the morning. Not many words were exchanged, but that was quite alright. Even had said enough in his lifetime, and had learned to appreciate a little silence over the years. Besides, the sound of Isak shuffling on his bed and sniffling without his sweater protecting him from the cold was music to Even’s ears.

“Let’s make a pact,” Isak said one morning. He had been playing with his fork, pushing the cut pieces of his pancake back and forth on the plate, restlessly.

It had been quite early into their… whatever, and Even was already fascinated with Isak’s mind. It was a puzzle that Even wanted to spend the rest of life solving. That day had been no different.

“A pact?”

“Yes, a pact. Let’s never talk about what happened before.”

“Before?”

“Before here. Before us.”

Even paused, his fork hovering mid air while the maple syrup drip drip dripped from it. His eyes met Isak’s green ones that were watching him carefully, studying his every move.

“Why not?” Even asked. Even had stories he wanted to tell Isak — tales of cheesy impressions, embarrassing dialogues and questionable behaviors. He wanted Isak to know everything about him, all sixty-seven years that Isak had missed with him.

“Because the time we have left is less than the time we could have had,” Isak solemnly said, “and I don’t want to waste our days on what we could have known and been.”

Even sharply inhaled.

 _I was helpless. I had to kiss him_ , Even will say later when the reporters write about their love, when the paparazzi bombard them at airports, when his daughters ask them how they met, when the world dares to question what was so concrete in Even’s mind.

|| 

“Hey Isak,” Even shouted across the cafeteria at the man who was dutifully eating his soggy porridge and sipping his sad lemonade. His nose was buried in a fat book that looked terribly boring but Even knew a whole new world was exploding inside his mind, jumping from one planet to another, discovering all sorts of things beyond human imagination.

“I’m so going to sex you,” he said loudly, once he was sure he had Isak’s attention. His gray curls never shifted and his face never looked up at Even, but he knew that Isak was listening. So, he pulled an over-the-top smirk across his face. Somewhere in the corner he heard a spoon drop, probably from the very conservative Hilde. Everyone’s eyes were on Even as he stood leaning against the door frame.

Isak, amongst the gasps and laughs and scandalized whispers, just snorted. He didn’t even look up from _The Mathematical Theory of Black Holes_.

“Even, you can’t even get your dick up.”

Shots. Fired.

“Let me debunk that statement of yours,” Even said smugly. He wasn’t about to give up. “Meet me in the broom closet by the TV room in ten minutes.”

Even waited for the eye roll he knew would come as Isak finally looked up at him, exasperated but still smiling Even’s favorite smile — fond and shy. He winked at him and walked away, spinning around on his heels. There was no feeling like the way his head spun after spotting the rise of a blush on Isak’s neck, knowing that it was spreading all over his body.

“To be fair,” he heard from behind him. Even turned around, only to see Isak standing on top of a cafeteria table, using Linn’s hand to steady himself. “I’d love to sex you up but I don’t think my hips would appreciate it.”

A loud laugh escaped Even. It was a kind of laughter he’d never experienced before, pulled out of him before he even knew to expect it. The kind that filled him up with gold and made his cheeks hot. The kind that made him want to pull Isak by the collar of his well-fitted shirt and kiss him senseless in front of every resident and volunteer in the building.

So, that’s what he did.

|| 

And, then there were the _secrets_. Even didn’t know what else to call them.

Isak whispered words to him in the middle of night when he thought Even was asleep. They were soft and sacred, spoken in a broken voice that made Even want to immediately turn around and fold his arms over Isak’s chest, pull him close and kiss the spot behind his ear.

Occasionally, he’d stir in the middle of the night, in a half-asleep state where his brain processed pillows as the foothills of the Andes and his table lamp as a mythical creature. He would feel Isak’s hand brushing his forehead, his finger tracing the outline of his jaw and weaving its way through his stubble, lulling him back to sleep. It was soothing caresses that he could feel in his dreams.  

Just before he drifted right back though, he’d hear them.

 

 

 

> “I’m afraid I didn’t do enough with my life.”
> 
> “Sometimes I wonder why I’m still breathing. What’s the point?”
> 
> “I can’t leave you. I don’t know what I’ll do in the end.”

He usually forgot them in the morning, watched Isak’s tired face rest peacefully on Even’s pillow, his own ending up on the floor more often than not. The whispered words came back to him at odd times — like while he would grab cereal for the both of them, or when he was in the middle of another one of his really long bathroom trips (a symptom of the sixties).

He doesn’t forget to write them all down in the corner of his sketchbook though, right above every drawing of gray curls, soft dimples and green eyes.

Perhaps they’ll go on his gravestone. Or, perhaps they’re Isak’s words alone and Even is merely an intruder.

 

 

 

> _“afraid”_
> 
> _“still breathing”_
> 
> _“in the end”_

|| 

Myocardial infarction.

That’s what the doctor declared as he watched Even’s pitiful form on his bed.

Even turned his head to look at Isak, who was standing next to Even’s bed. He knew his face was twisted into a mixture of fear and confusion. The doctor had spouted a series of medical information and statistics, after which he rattled off a list of medicines that the nurse wrote down on a clean sheet of paper. Even had stopped paying attention when the young doctor — probably forty years of age, re-dyed his hair black at least four times to avoid confronting his grey strands and married to a very jealous partner, judging by the huge ring — began marking his vitals. Even probably looked like a kicked puppy or like the cookie monster, for all he knew.

“You had a heart attack,” Isak explained in a somber voice. His hand came up to squeeze Even’s shoulder, a reminder that he was there and he was watching, taking note of everything.

Even breathed a little easier after that but it wasn’t enough. He almost wanted to ask the doctor if a lung collapse usually followed heart attacks, because that was what he felt like was happening. Like, his chest was caving into something he couldn’t see the end of, and the only thing keeping him from completely falling was Isak’s cool hand pressing into his right shoulder.

They had recently painted each other fingernails and the horrendous neon green Even had chosen for Isak as a joke was now a beacon of hope, something that helped tide him through the conversations people were having about him in the third-person. It was alright, though. Isak was there. He was taking care of it all, for the time-being, almost like he knew that Even was on the verge of breaking. Isak kept his composed demeanor as he questioned the nurse, browsed through Even’s medical history (they had recently given each other clearance) and nodded seriously to the doctor’s inputs.

Then, Isak followed the doctor out into the hallway as he was leaving, probably to interrogate him about his education and pester him about Even’s health, and the nurse left a few moments later with the promise of soon-to-come medicine, leaving Even to deal with the painful elephant in the room.

He had almost died.

He had almost been erased from existence, almost been buried six feet under, almost shattered his daughters’ hearts, almost left Isak alone.

 _I can’t leave,_ Even realized.

Isak still had trouble sleeping. He barely remembered to cook his dinners and he was so picky, Even was sure he was the only one who knew how to make Isak a full meal he would actually like. He constantly stayed buried in his books so someone had to remind him to take his pills and he hated doctors so he needed someone to go with him every time. Lately, he couldn’t hear very well and he needed someone to repeat certain phrases to him, louder than the acceptable decibel level.  

Isak needed Even.

Even shut his eyes tight, feeling the panic rise in his throat. He wanted to curl into himself, burrow himself into his sheets like he would do when he was younger, but he couldn’t move. Instead he just balled his hands into fists by his side and recited the alphabets in his head.

After seconds left uncounted, he felt Isak’s hand on his shoulder again as he helped himself onto Even’s bed. He lied down next to Even, slowly adjusting himself till his chin was resting on Even’s chest.

“Hey baby,” Isak whispered into his ear.

Even pretended to be asleep. He couldn’t face Isak now, not after he had almost left him alone in this stupid world. He had nearly failed Isak, nearly broken his silent promise to him. What kind of a person was he? Could he not survive long enough to support Isak? To love him until the universe wouldn’t let him?

“I’m here, Even. You’re here. We’re here.”

All the while, Even’s brain screamed, _not now, not now, not now._

|| 

That night Isak slept under Even’s bright blue covers, lying on his side to face him as he snuggled into Even’s shoulder.

 _Perhaps_ this _is love_ , Even thought as he watched Isak’s chest rise and fall heavily with his slow breaths. The pillow underneath his head was mushed under the weight of his head, the gray curls of his hair brushing Even’s chin. One of his hands was curled into a fist and the other was reaching unconsciously for Even’s, so he gave it to him. Gave him his hand, his heart, his whole life too.

Even held Isak’s hand delicately, ran his thumb along the veins that stuck out a little too much. He pulled it towards his mouth and pressed his lips to it, trying to ignore the tear that spilled from his eye and landed on one of Isak’s fingernails.

When he moved Isak’s hand away, he could see a line of spit connecting Isak’s hand to his mouth, and it felt like a profound moment; like the concluding scene of a tragic romance, when the two lovers realized that this was all there was, this was all they’d ever have no matter how much they wished for more and maybe somewhere someday in a parallel universe —

Even sighed.

He placed Isak’s hand over his heart carefully and held it there as tightly as he could without waking him up. He watched his eyelashes flutter against his pale cheeks, his lips curling downward and prayed to the universe, to the stars, to some zillion gods or a single entity, to science and its cogent ways.

He watched the man of his life, and silently begged:

_Give me one more day with him. Just one. Be good to me, strange heart, and let me have another day with him._

**Author's Note:**

> songs i was listening to while writing:  
> death with dignity - sufjan stevens  
> la lune - billie marten  
> down to the second - zack berkman  
> can’t help falling in love - tyler joseph


End file.
